Page 88 of Konstantin

I climb out of bed and head to the suitcase, removing a floral dress from inside, something soft and feminine that falls to my knees. I’d much rather wear something black, something that reflects how I truly feel. But if I’m going to play this game, I have to follow his rules, even while I hate every minute of it.

The winding staircase feels endless as I descend. Framed paintings line the walls. Nature scenes, dense forests, wolves howling under full moons. Power and beauty. A reflection of the man who lives here.

At the bottom, a guy waits, gun holstered, back straight.

“Good morning, Mrs. Marinova. The boss waiting for you. I show you where.”

“Alright.” I follow him past the foyer and into an expansive kitchen with gray cabinetry, white marbled counters, and pendant lights glowing like low embers.

A long oak table anchors the room, piled high with food. Konstantin sits at the head of it, his phone in one hand, a porcelain coffee cup in the other. He looks devastatingly relaxed, the crisp white of his shirt rolled at the forearms, veins visible as his fingers scroll lazily. But the moment he sees me, his posture shifts. The phone lowers; his lips curl into a slow, deliberate smirk; and something in my chest stutters hard.

The way he looks at me…it’s too much. Too intimate. Like I’m something precious he doesn’t intend to let go of.

And for a split second, I let myself wonder how it might feel if this was real. A husband whose eyes soften when I entered the room. Aman who smiles like I’m his world.

My heart squeezes at the thought, because I know better. I know exactly what this is: a velvet-lined trap that tightens every time I exhale.

“Careful, Mrs. Marinova. That dress might start a war,” he drawls, low and rough, thick with something that makes my pulse flicker.

He rises from his seat like a man with purpose, closing the space between us in three measured steps. His fingers brush my waist before his arm curves around my back, pulling me in. His mouth dips to my ear, breath warm and unhurried against my skin.

“Good morning, my beautiful wife.”

My heart does that stupid thing again every time he calls me that, like it’s flipping in my chest.

Stupid heart.

“Morning.” I slide my hand up the solid column of his neck and tug him closer, unable to stop myself, like he’s controlling every inch of me.

My lips graze his jaw, and he lets out a low growl, the vibration seeping into my chest. He follows as I turn toward the table, but before I can reach the nearest seat, he pulls out the one beside his. I hesitate, but his fingers slide along mine in a slow caress. When I look up, his gaze has darkened, burning through every layer of my restraint. It roams my face, my lips, down the slope of my neck, like he’s memorizing me.

I force myself to clear my throat, to break whatever this is. When I finally lower into my seat, he slides in beside me, his hand falling to my thigh beneath the table, firm and possessive.

And just like that, I forget how to breathe.

Before I can process the heat spreading through me, footsteps echo softly against the tile. An older woman enters the kitchen, her gray hair swept into a low bun and a warm smile lighting up her face.

“Oh, hello! It is pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Marinova.Congratulations!” Her Russian accent is hard to miss.

I stand to greet her, offering a quick glance at Konstantin, silently asking who she is.

“This is Arina, my chef. She prepared our breakfast.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I tell her, still trying to wrap my head around how domestic this moment feels. “Everything smells incredible.”

She smiles warmly and squeezes my hand. “I make blini with red caviar, syrniki with powder sugar. Is Russian pancake. And pirozhki with egg and onion. You eat, yes?”

“Sure, I’ll try everything.” A grin grows on my face.

I’ve never tasted any of that before, but my mouth waters just from the aroma. As I take my seat again, Arina pours me a cup of coffee while Konstantin leans forward and begins piling food onto my plate.

“Whoa…” I laugh, eyeing the generous portions. “That’s way too much. If you keep feeding me like this, I won’t fit into this dress you seem to like so much.”

His gaze darkens as it sweeps over me. “That’s perfectly fine. I prefer you without it anyway.”

My mouth falls open, heat blazing across my cheeks as I throw a pointed look toward Arina, who’s facing away from us, washing something in the sink.

He barely blinks. “Don’t worry, she’s seen and heard worse.”